Feet of Iron, Feet of Clay
by Sylverlin
Summary: Mopping up is dirty work. Things haven't ended for Torrent company when the war did, not by a long shot... Now, there is a Jedi to retrieve on the insignificant planet of Hisra, and allegiances to reconsider.  May become AU. Rated mainly for language.


**Disclaimer: Star Wars belongs to George Lucas. I just play in the sandbox. Or, in this case, mud.**

**Author's Note: My attempt at writing military stuff. The exposition is a bit slow and doesn't feature our usual heroes, but we'll get there...**

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><p><em>Middle of Nowhere, Hisra. In the air.<em>

_(0224 local time)_

"This is Lima lead to Foxtrot, your LZ is clear, repeat, the LZ is clear."

"Lima lead, this is Foxtrot lead, roger that, we're coming in, ETA one minute."

"Foxtrot lead, hold it for a second, I think I see some movement at oh one four, out about two hundred, near the abandoned huts…"

"Lima three, I see it too, going in to check it out."

"Lima six, moving to cover."

"Lima lead, this is Foxtrot, we're staying put until you guys make sure our LZ is clear."

"Roger that, Foxtrot lead."

"This is Lima three, heat scan positive, there is definitely something down there."

"Lima two and four, go help three. Five, cover our one eight zero. Six, just stay up there and watch out. We got to bring our guys without a scratch here."

"Roger that, Lima lead, Lima two moving in…"

"This is three, taking fire! Evasive action!"

A spectacular blaze ripped through the darkness, leaving a fiery trail behind. The LAAT swerved to avoid the rocket. It flew wide and before it erupted harmlessly high in the sky, another one shot up from a different point on the surface. It streaked past not two feet from the gunship's canopy and bored straight into Lima six.

"Six is hit, repeat, six is hit!"

"Covering fire!"

The five remaining gunships splattered the ground with a volley of blaster fire. The dazzling blasts threw chunks of ground up in the air and the night lit up. The carcass of the crippled gunship hit the ground.

"Foxtrot lead, Lima six is down, repeat, Lima six is down, we need ground troops to secure the crash site!"

"Foxtrot copy, moving in."

The barrage seemed to have been working, because no more rockets rose from the surface, but the gunners pounded a perimeter around the crashed LAAT a bit more, for good measure. Then the violent flashes subsided and only burning vegetation supplied some flickering light.

"Lima three and four, go down to the crash site and check for survivors! Lima two and five, circle with me at oh one hundred. Three sixty security."

"Sure you want us down there, sir?"

"Yeah, just go!"

"OK, Lima four moving to cover crash site at double oh twelve."

"This is Foxtrot lead, any more hostile activity?"

"Negative on that, Foxtrot lead. All nice and quiet now."

"Burned 'em all, Limas, eh?"

"Cut the chatter, Foxtrot two."

The wing of gunships packed with troops nearly skimmed the occasional treetop as it sped towards the designated landing zone. White amoebas of residue fires from the barrage crawled around in the picture from night vision gear. Miraculously, the downed gunship was not burning.

"This is Lima three, there is movement in the cockpit! Repeat, I see movement in the cockpit!"

"Can you confirm a survivor?"

"Negative, might be just smoke or something. Obscured by debris. Permission to land and check?"

"Negative, Lima three, wait for Foxtrot and cover their landing. Should be here in twenty."

"Roger that."

"Two and five, how're we doing?"

"Nothing within half a click. It was probably just an ADS trap."

"Foxtrot lead, this is Lima lead, the LZ is now clear."

"We sure hope so, Lima lead. There in five."

"We see you, Foxtrot. Three and four, move!"

The two gunships that were hovering close to the crashed gunship to protect it against possible ground troops were already rising to make place for the arriving craft. The gunships of Foxtrot group slid under the Limas.

"Foxtrot two and three, secure a perimeter around the crash site. Four and five, follow me."

The landing craft touched down and armored troops filed out. Two squads took positions around the downed LAAT and a fireteam made its way to check on the supposed survivor. The black and white view through the NVG was almost surreal. Lima group continued circling low over the scene which darkened considerably as the fires died away.

"Foxtrot is on the ground, repeat, Foxtrot is on the ground. The troops are deployed. Our birds are going up for air cover."

"Roger that, Foxtrot lead. Alright, we'll leave you guys to it."

A slight pause. The five gunships kept circling, as if waiting for something.

"We'll be right in touch about your number six."

"Okay. Lima going back to _Resolute_ to refuel. Kilo is standing by to watch your backsides until we're coming back."

The five CAS-designated LAATs rose in formation and soon disappeared in the overcast.

_Middle of Nowhere, Hisra. On the ground._

_(0226 local time)_

Torrent fire team six was making its way towards the cockpit of the late Lima six. The gunship was on its starboard, the wing blown clean off by the rocket strike which also destroyed most of the back and crew compartment. Miraculously, the other wing and the forward section was practically untouched, as the ever-present mud considerably softened its impact.

On the down side, that also meant it took the fire team more than a minute to trudge the twenty meters. Only to find out the lower cockpit was stuck in the ground and the upper would not open as well.

CT-2322-627 was the first who noticed that the co-pilot in the upper cockpit was still alive. He called for the engineering outfit. The two designated CEs sloshed through the mud, climbed on the wreck and started carefully fusioncutting the transparisteel canopy away.

_(0231 local time)_

"Lima lead, this is Foxtrot lead, the co-pilot is alive and unconscious, we're working on getting him out."

"The others?"

"The gunners are a mess. We can't access the lower cockpit, it's stuck in the mud. Medics are trying to get a reading, but we can't be sure."

"How long till you get him out?"

"Our engineers are saying anything between thirty and three hundred. We'll keep you posted."

"Thanks. Lima out."

_(0233 local time)_

The squads from Foxtrot one, four and five finished unloading their weaponry, BARCs and a plethora of other equipment. Everything was taking longer than it should have, thanks to the darkness and mud. Two troopers carrying one of the speeder bikes slipped and barely avoided having their legs badly mangled by the vehicle. In the end, all sixty troopers were out, manning makeshift firing posts, peering into the night. All was quiet except for the hum of the fusioncutters as the superheated particles slowly bore through the canopy.

"_Teroch_ squad, go check the automated defense system sites, see if you can get us some intel on what shot down that bird. One's about two hundred meters out at oh fourteen, haven't got the location of the second. Be advised it may've gotten blown away, so look around for a bit. Also, keep your eyes open for any surprises. Who knows what this hell hole holds."

"Yes, sir. _Teroch_ moving out."

The nine clones slid away from the perimeter towards the presumed missile launcher site. They showed up in the night vision as rather bright figures, but only because the gear was rigged to amplify trooper armor. Without that nifty piece of engineering, the silhouettes would be practically invisible. Knights in shining armor were one thing, surviving in a war zone a wholly different matter. Camouflage was the name of the game.

The ground outside the perimeter was torn open by the earlier gunship volleys, so progress was even slower. The squad periodically dipped into waist-deep holes that were starting to fill up with mud. A drizzle started, adding the quiet but irritating clicking of raindrops on armor – and more mud – to the nervous setup. _Teroch _squad moved on, peering into the night.

_(0241 local time)_

"Torrent Bravo, this is _Teroch_ lead, we have reached the presumed ADS site. No sign of the launcher." The clone sergeant paused. "No sign of anything, sir."

"Find the ADS or whatever's left of it. We have to know what we're up against."

"Yes, sir. _Teroch, _spread out!"

_(0244 local time)_

"Hey! Got the bugger!"

The half-melted missile launcher tube was lying in one of the countless craters, already almost buried by the ever-present mire. The drizzle was getting worse and the troopers had trouble wading in the mud pools that formed in the craters.

"Torrent Bravo, we found the weapon. Inspecting it now."

CT-4394-483, _Teroch_ weapons expert, knelt to examine the remnants of the automated defense system. "Sir, it's a one-spit, an AA trap. Real simple. They have a directed airborne proximity sensor and just one rocket. It powers up only after the sensor detects incoming, so it doesn't show up on the scans. Plus," the trooper lifted several slivers of what didn't really look like anything in the NVG, "thermo-foil camouflage nets. That's how they didn't even have the half-second between powering up and missile away."

"Heard it, Torrent Bravo? Someone's being clever with us."

"Copy that, _Teroch_ lead. Can you recover the weapon?"

"That's a negative, sir, it's stuck in the blasted mud."

"Oh well. Fall back to the perimeter, then."

The squad, with some relief, turned back towards the resting gunships, watchful clones and the engineers still cutting away at the cockpit.

_(0246 local time)_

"Sir, there could be any number of these things out there. They have directional sensors, so they only fire when something comes within a really small cone. We could've passed hundreds of them on the way."

"That bad, huh?"

"One-spits are cheap and easy to deploy, sir. A droid could do it."

"Meaning…"

"Meaning we can't risk calling in air support, _Teroch._ Move your shebs and get back in here."

_Teroch_ dipped into yet another unavoidable dent in the ground and as the troopers were helping each other through the obligatory mud pool at the bottom, _Teroch _four, CT-3866-293, said,

"Sir, I think we're being watched. Gut feeling."

Kriff.

"Torrent Bravo, can you get snipers to do a scan sweep? Just in case."

Clone sniper rifles came with an amplified night vision scope that was quite beyond the standard-issue NVG. A scan sweep meant there would be three or four sniper-spotter teams up on the gunships soon, scanning their sectors diligently, ready to fire as soon as they find something that shouldn't be there. With their effective range nearly a click, that very nearly posed a problem.

Time to get going.

_(0247 local time)_

It only took punching in one code for a great deal of inconspicuous discs and wires, spread around a large area, buried just a few centimeters under the ground, to come to life.

_(0250 local time)_

The _Teroch_ squad almost got lucky. The clones made it nearly to the perimeter when CT-3866-293 unwittingly stepped on one of the discs, thus engaging a dead-man switch. The moment he stepped off, the land mine exploded.

Two clones were inside the kill radius when the mine went off. Three others were lifted off their feet and slammed into the ground. The blast temporarily blinded the night vision gear of all close enough, which included even some of the troopers inside the perimeter.

"Medic! Medic!"

The nearest firing position belonged to fire team one of _Mantis_ squad. The troopers jumped over their makeshift breastworks and made towards the wounded.

"My legs! I can't feel my legs!"

There were more screams in the comms. CT-1099-254 rolled over a crater edge and slid down to help CT-4232-998. The injured trooper's frontal armor was ripped open and a plethora of shrapnel was lodged in his chest and abdomen. There was profuse bleeding. CT-1099-254 swore and began administering basic battlefield care.

_(0319 local time)_

_Teroch'_s medic was the second KIA, so the _Mantis_ medic was the only one close enough with the expertise and equipment necessary to, well, stop the wounded from dying. Despite his best efforts, he was not able to curb CT-4830-056's blood loss through the stumps of his legs in time and the hypovolemic shock was simply too great. The next casualty was CT-8911-393, who bled out internally; he was knocked unconscious by the blast, so he didn't cry for help and before his squad mates found him, it was too late. Only CT-4232-998 survived, thanks to a double dose of blood-clotting aerosol administered by CT-1099-254.

_(0331 local time)_

The bodies – or remnants – were carefully collected without further incident. CT-4232, sedated and nabbed with an IV, was transported into Foxtrot One, where the medics improvised an operating room and were taking out shrapnel one by one. _Teroch_ troopers took turns to provide blood for transfusions. The medics have gotten so used to everyone being the same blood type they didn't even comment on the practicality of being clones any more.

In the meantime, the scanning sniper/spotter teams did not report any discrepancies, except for what team Red thought was a camouflaged one-spit a click and a half away to the east. "Right under our flight path," CT-1861-822 muttered to his spotter.

"All right, everybody, listen up." CC-2919-225, or Torrent Bravo, commander of the five squads that made up the other half of Torrent Company, spoke into the intercom. "We're in the middle of a fucking mine field. Got four KIA so far, we're not risking going out without proper equipment. Plus, the place is probably crawling with one-spits, so we can't risk flying closer bringing in CAS. That's unless we're in real deep shit, I guess. Anyway, I've called the _Resolute_ and they should be dropping us minesweepers as soon as there's enough light to do it. Until then, we stay put. I want a sniper team up and scanning at all times plus four sentries of two. The rest of you, catch some sleep. As if I have to tell you. Commander out."

_(0457 local time)_

The last sliver of metal rang against the bowl and, for the time being, CT-4232-998 was shrapnel-free. The medics finished sewing the remaining rip and then sat down. The trooper was stable.

"Lucky bastard," commented CT-4394-483, who was the last blood donor and stayed to help the medics clean up.

At the same time, the engineers finally managed to cut away the downed gunship's cockpit. They called the medics; the man inside was still alive, breathing and unconscious.

_(0502 local time)_

CT-8259-920, the medic of the _Adenatte_ squad and an unofficial CMO of the deployment, saw the pilot's thighs disappear under a toppled console panel and silently cursed crush syndrome. "We can't move him. Stabilize in here."

The medics shrugged, passed around a stimulant bar and got on with it.


End file.
